Broken Souls
by Crash92
Summary: While investigating the puzzling death of German Journalist, Harry Potter must navigate a dark and twisted path connected to the shadowy world of wizarding espionage, the hunt for a mole and his new tenant, a painter named Lana Winters.
1. Something Dark is Coming

It was late on a cold January afternoon when Ginny called.

"Harry, I found someone!" She said as soon as he took the call.

"What? Who? For What?"

"For the cottage. We've been looking for someone to rent it, remember?"

Since the previous November they had been looking for someone to rent the cottage at Gwynafon Park. Like many things, that cottage was just a small part of the estate Harry inherited when he turned 21.

One more surprise from the ghosts of his past.

The manor house itself was built in the 15th century by one John Potter, or Iwan ap Dylan, a wizard of little known ancestry from the Welsh Marches, a sometimes knight, adventurer and privateer in the service of Henry VI, and later Henry VII and the Lancastrians, according to Andromeda Tonks. As a reward, John was given Welsh land full of deer and a knighthood by the latter Henry. John's son, Stephen, would build the actual house, a somewhat rambling Tudor manor with a garden full of peacocks added later. It was named for the small river at the end of the garden, Gwynafon, the white river.

As for the cottage in question, that too was a later addition; added by one of Harry's ancestors for some tenet farmer or gardener to reside in. When Harry inherited Gwynafon, he and Ginny found it derelict on a high hilltop about half hectare from the manor house. It had a very good view, south facing, of the river and the usually foggy valley and forested mountains. Picturesque was the word that came to mind.

Harry originally thought of fixing it up for guests to use, but changed his mind after counting the rooms in the manor proper, and left the cottage to sit for a few more years. It was only after Lily was born when the subject of the cottage came up again, and it was Percy who suggested the restoration and renting it out.

"Who's the renter?" asked Harry.

"Give me a moment," Ginny shuffled around for a bit, looking for the papers, "her name is Lana Winters. Painter by trade. From Ludlow, in Shropshire."

"A painter. Bit gloomy out for landscapes, don't you think?"

"Says the man who never went to an art gallery until his twenties."

"Touché."

"Anyway, Ms. Winters will be taking the cottage this weekend. Currently getting things handled in Hammersmith she told me."

"Alright, that sounds very good," Harry replied, just as Ruqayyah Hamdam entered, "I have to go dear, see you tonight."

"See you."

Harry put the mirror back on his desk and looked up at Ruqayyah.

"Looks like we've got a murder on our hands."

On Portobello Road, in Notting Hill, there is a small hotel for witches and wizard, not far from where George Orwell had lived in 1927. It was nondescript and very private, called The Shiplake and run by the spinster sisters Dorothea and Isadora Jones. It was mostly a refuge for young wizarding writers and artists. And that late afternoon, the corpse of a young man.

He was a bit above average height, thick brown hair and brown eyes. His throat was cut, arterial spray all on the wall directly across from where the victim was lying, in a pool of blood. Normally, as head of the Magical Constabulary Service, Harry would not be called out to a crime scene. But this was unique.

"His passport says that his name is Konrad Tschida," Ruqayyah said, passing Harry the passport and a few other documents. Tschida, Konrad Friedrich, aged 25, from Celle, German. A writer for _Das Krähennest_, a Hamberg based wizarding paper from what he could glean. He had learned, not that long ago (after he became head of the MCS in fact) that unlike the UK, Germany seemed to require sixteen newspapers for its wizarding community; one for each of the fifteen states and one specifically for Berlin.

But now he knew exactly why Ruqayyah needed him there. He could already see the international incident coming. Like a speeding train, in fact.

_German journalist dead in a Notting Hill hotel_. Thank God for Rita Skeeter being in the middle of corruption inquiry and was currently suspended from the _Prophet_.

"Has the DIMC been notified?" He asked Ruqayyah.

"Yes."

"Good. Have the Joneses and the housekeeper been questioned yet?"

"Eamon is on that, but they're still in a state."

"Good." After a pause, "Is Eddy here yet?"

"I am," came a voice from behind. Edith "Eddy" French was St. Mungo's medical examiner and could be seen a mile off in her purple windcheater, dreadlocks and a piercings. She had been brought in from San Francisco after the last medical examiner retired; apparently because out of all the healers in the British Isles, there was only one ME left, and they were the only one for Ireland as well. And besides, Eddy's credentials were worth it. Not that she was the fastest getting to a scene.

"What took you?" asked Ruqayyah.

"Oh, you know, an overly chatty orderly and typical London traffic," she said nonchalantly as she got to her work, "Can I turn over the corpse?"

"Connie," Ruqayyah called over to one of the forensic team, "Can Eddy turn Herr Tschida over?"

"Go ahead."

Eddy turned the body over, revealing the deep slash across the throat. She quickly started taking measurements while Connie Carter took photos. Just then another person came in, an auror, and Ruqayyah's current partner, Eamon Moloney, came in.

"Did you get the ladies' statements?" she asked.

"Yes. Neither of the Sisters Jones heard anything; they were having their afternoon tea and listening to the wireless. Housekeeper said that Herr Tschida had been in his room all day, as far as she knew."

"Eddy? Do have a time of death?" Ruqayyah asked, turning to Eddy.

"About two and a half hours ago. Gash is pretty deep, all the way from the external carotid artery to the external jugular vein. And very clean by the looks of it. Would have bled out within a minute, probably less."

Harry looked at his watch. It was 4:30 now, so about 1:30 give or take, "When was he found?" Harry asked Eamon.

Eamon consulted his notes, "The housekeeper said that she went to check on Herr Tschida here at about 3:00 and discovered this."

"Any sign of a struggle?" Harry asked Eddy.

"None that I could find. But I still have to do the autopsy. I'll let you know if I find anything."

Harry nodded then turned back to Eamon,"When did he arrive? At the hotel, initially?"

"The housekeeper said that he arrived six days ago. He would get up early and come back late."

"Do they know what he was up to?" asked Ruqayyah.

"They said that he was rather cagy about it all."

"Cagey?" repeated Ruqayyah.

"Cagey . You know. Dodging questions, didn't really talk to the sisters or the housekeeper. All he said was that he worked for a newspaper in Hamburg. Said nothing about what he was writing about."

Harry asked: "Did the housekeeper see any of Mr. Tschida's notes? Anything he would have needed for … whatever he was looking into?"

"The Housekeeper said that he kept a notebook with him. Small, black, on the nightstand next to the…"

Harry and Ruqayyah looked over at the nightstand. There was no notebook on it, black or any colour. And nothing on the desk either. Ruqayyah put on a pair of gloves as she moved to the nightstand and opened the drawer. She looked up, shaking her head before she went to the matching nightstand on the other side of the bed.

Nothing again.

"Connie," she said, turning once again to the younger woman, "You and the others keep searching until you find some of his work, notes, whatever, of the victim's. Kay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Harry looked over at Ruqayyah, "Not much more we can do here."

"No. Reports. And meetings with the DIMC. The German ligation. And the Head Girl..."

"Lady Hamilton, yes. She will _definitely_ want to know."

Already Harry was dreading what would be coming. Not just the investigation. Or the paperwork. Or the figuring out who had jurisdiction over what. Or the probable gag order. No, dealing with Lady Hamilton in light of the murder of a German national would be something else entirely. He would have to go back to the office, file the initial report as soon as he could (so that there wouldn't be any surprises tomorrow) and hope that everything would follow smoothly. It never did, but one could hope.

And as they walked out of the room, Ruqayyah asked Harry, "So what do you think happened?"

"Don't know. Likely someone appearated into the room — the sisters and the housekeeper wouldn't have heard because of the radio and the traffic outside — slit Tschida's throat from behind, grabbed his stuff and left. Now the questions are who and why."


	2. Let Me Occupy Your Mind

The hardest part of Lana Winter's day was getting up. She was always very tempted to stay in bed. She really didn't have much to do. The bed was warm. She could hear the rain poring down outside; no point going out. Her arm and back were hurting again. And there was the pressure on the back of her eyes again. But that was more from drinking more raki than she should have last night.

The Arm and back pain were something quite different.

She had rolled onto her stomach, hoping to alive the pain that seemed to always centre on her lower left side. Despite herself and the pain in her eyes, Lana did open them. The room was filled with the cold, grey light of an early January morning. The fire was out in the small grate, giving the room an extra chill. Lana pulled the covers over her head.

_Go back to sleep. _

_Go back to sleep._

The music started again.

Disjointed, disorientating string music.

Played backwards. On an old, messed up record player.

And underneath, whistling. Some happy tune. A sentimental song. Coming closer.

And closer.

_Make it stop._

Closer. Singing starts.

_Make it stop._

Closer. At the door.

_Stop._

Closer.

_STOP! PLEASE! Make it stop…_

Lana woke up. Did she scream? She didn't know. She found herself curled up in the fetal position, tangled in the sheets. Breathing heavily, shuddering with every draw. Hands over her ears, trying to make the music, the whistling, go away. As she sat up, Lana's left arm started to ache again, like it was on fire. She clutched it, close to her chest. Her hand closed in a fist. Head on her knees. The pain was unbearable. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both would do.

Not like it wasn't unusual for her to do so anyway.

She gave herself a moment. A good cry. A good laugh. Waited for her arm to stop seizing before looking over a the easel in the right corner across from her bed. Maybe she would do something today.


	3. Not As Cold As You

Out of all of wizarding medical disciplines, autopsies were the most invasive and, in a way, taboo. They were not forbidden, they needed to be preformed, but forensic pathologists were seen in the same light as undertakers, grave diggers and executioners. Their business was death and as such, people like Eddy French were usually shunned by "polite" wizarding society. Eddy's trade required opening up a body, taking out organs, examining everything — magical and mundane. Her trade was finding out how people died, and one could not dismiss Muggle ways of death.

Which was why finding the St Mungo's Hospital morgue for the first time could sometimes be daunting. The entrance to morgue was tucked away in a corridor at the very far end of the Artifact Accident ward. There, one would find an lift and a set of stairs that lead down to the morgue. Pretty much all the staff at St. Mungo's did everything they could to avoid going down there if they did absolutely have to. No matter how much of a lovely person Eddy French was. And in a society where Muggle medical doctors were seen as little better than butchers to begin with, it was understandable why pathologists where few and far between. The only other pathologist in the entire British Isles was John Michael Finnegan of Dublin; and he was frequently overworked as it was.

And it was in the morgue, late on the afternoon following the murder, where Harry and Ruqayyah found themselves with Eddy; purple ombre dreadlocks, lip, eyebrow, nose and ear piercings and Muggle scrubs. She hated medical robes. Thought that they were outdated, unhygienic and cumbersome. It was a hold over from when she worked for ten years at the San Francisco de Asís Wizarding Hospital, located north of San Francisco, California.

"Your Mr. Tschida didn't leave a hella of lot for me to work with," Eddy said as she opened one of the refrigerated cabinets. "But I did confirm the cause of death."

Harry and Ruqayyah had gathered around the body as Eddy pulled back the sheet. In Harry's opinion, this, getting Eddy's report, seeing the body, was hard. Being in the morgue, looking at the body of a victim seemed to bring back images from Hogwarts ten years ago. Made all the more worse by the coldness of a morgue.

Konrad Tschida was twenty-five. _Just three years younger than me_.

"Slash to the throat?" asked Ruqayyah.

"Slash to the throat. Left to right, severing the left internal jugular vein to the right common carotid artery. He would have been dead by the time he hit the floor. Judging by the depth of the wound, I would say the perp either used a hunting knife or a gerber, combat knife, something like that."

For all of Harry's nine years of being an auror, there had only been one case where no magic was used to harm someone. It had been a drunken bar brawl at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade in 2001. No one was seriously hurt. But killing someone in the wizarding world using Muggle means was unheard of.

"Er - You sure?" Harry asked, perplexed.

"Dude. I literally tried everything to figure out how he died. Looked to see if there was anything else. And nada. Nothing. Zilch. There was no magical way this guy died. And it looks professional. Who ever killed Tschida knew exactly what they were doing."

"What," Harry and Ruqayyah said together.

"What do you mean 'professional'?" asked Ruqayyah, rather agitated.

"Well, hon, this looks a couple of murders from when I was a baby autopsy gremlin."

Harry and Ruqayyah stared.

Eddy sighed, "Kay. So. When I was about a year in at Francisco de Asís, we had a victim come in. He was a Nor Cal wizard, from, Christ, Oakland. Part of a local, low level street gang. So he comes into the morgue and there's this really deep slash across his throat. Determined it was from a straight razor and we thought it was a one off. Until five others came into the morgue over the next two years. The detectives found out that there was a bit of a turf war going on."

"And what does this have anything to do with Tschida?" interjected Ruqayyah.

"I'm saying this, because the those six victims were killed by thieves-in-law, pro criminals from the Soviet Union, former satellite states, so on. Hella nasty bunch and pervasive throughout both the Muggle and magical worlds. And this group in San Fran, their signature was slitting throats. There leader was apparently some dude who also did some work for some people who were interested in his skills. Of the assassination type.

"Eventually, they were eventually caught. Took 'em nearly six years, too. The only reason they were caught was because they got sloppy. If they had been more careful about how many guys they were killing, they wouldn't have been caught. Long and short of it, good luck finding this guy."

A cold feeling settled into Harry's stomach.

"Er - so. Basically what you're trying to say is - um - with magic, someone can get in and out quickly," said Harry, trying to make sense of it all.

"And get rid of any evidence without leaving any further trace," continued Eddy.

"But the problem with using something like the killing curse is that everyone would notice. Same goes for most spells that can kill. They're too loud and bright. People could see it from the street," added Ruqayyah.

"So as I said yesterday. Got in, slit Tschida's throat and then got out. Very quiet," said Harry.

"And as _I _said, it was very clean and professional."

They thanked Eddy and she promised to get her report to Hermione as that afternoon. As Harry and Ruqayyah went back up to the ground floor of the hospital, Ruqayyah stopped him.

"Before you get self pitying — and I know you will 'cause you do this when things are starting to look tough — I know will find this guy. _Bismallah_."

"_Bismallah_." Harry repeated.

That was Harry and Ruqayyah's good luck charm.

"This isn't going to be a normal case, Ruqayyah," Harry pointed out.

"I know. But I know that we will be able to find this guy."

"Yeah…" then it occurred to Harry, "Before you leave for home, could you get Kit to look into Tschida's work, the paper he wrote for."

"So his previous work, statements from his co-workers and bosses and ask about what he was working on."

"Yeah. If there's anything that going to give us any insight until we find his notes, it's the paper."


	4. Neunundneunzig Luftballons

It took a while to find it, but eventually, Kit Stanley, Harry's personal assistance at the Constabulary office - effete, urbane, discreet and dressed in besboke, Savile Row suits - got to the offices of _Das_ _Krähennest_. Located in the Speicherstadt, the warehouse district next to HafenCity, along the Elbe River, It was hidden in plain sight from most Muggles. There wasn't even a Muggle repellent charm, there was simply a nondescript sign that had the name of the paper and which floor it was on. Fourth floor, to be exact. He was there to meet Romy Bärh, one of the editors for the newspaper and a frequent collaborator with Konrad Tschida.

When he got to floor with the newspaper's offices, Stanley found himself greeted by a small, scratchy voiced kobold. It was a little over two feet, reptilian looking with an iguana-like head and rust brown hide.

"_Guten Tag! Willkommen! Sie wünschen?_"

"_Ja. Ich war fragen wenn Frau Romy Bärh hier?_" Stanley asked in practised German.

"_Ich bin hier. Und Sie sind?" _asked a young woman to the right of Stanley. Romy Bärh was young, in her late twenties and arty in appearance. She of average height, black hair in a crown braid, wearing a dark green dirndl dress over a plaid blouse. Freda Kahlo meets a German milk maid in a way. She had two very thick manila envelops in her arms and a very tired expression behind her thick, black rimmed glasses.

"Kit Stanley," switching over to English, he introduced himself, extending his hand, "I'm with the Magical Constabulary Service."

Frau Bärh shook it, "Romy Bärh. I guess you are here about Konrad?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"I see," she said, looking over at the kobold, "Heinzel?"

"_Ja, Frau Bärh?_"

"_Könnten Sie Frau von Weihmarr und Herr Paternoster?_"

The kobold, Heinzel, got off its stool and trotted off, saying in its scratchy, singsongy voice, "_bekommen, bekommen, bekommen._"

"This way," she said, gesturing to a hallway with doors to offices. She lead Stanley into one hers, the window looking out over the canal and the other warehouses. The sky outside was starting to clear off. Stanley imagined that on a sunny day, the office would look like it was under water.

"So… Konrad… It's still… How did he die?" Frau Bärh asked.

Stanley felt a little blindsided by this, "I'm not at liberty to disclose how Herr Tschida died. It was quick, though. If that's any consolation."

She gave a half smile. Just then, there was a nock at the door. Stanley looked over and saw two people. The man was tall and lanky, brown hair and a five o'clock shadow. The woman, who looked barely twenty-five at the most, brown hair and rather pretty in an aristocratic way.

"Romy, _was ist los_?"

"Oh, uh, sorry. Mr. Stanley, this is Erika von Weihmarr and Peter Paternoster," Frau Bärh said, gesturing the two people in the doorway, "They are … were, working with Konrad."

"So. I'm assuming all of you would know what he was doing in England. What he was looking into?"

Both von Weihmarr and Paternoster looked stunned. Paternoster looked at Frau Bärh saying, "Romy, _das ist vertraulich! Wir konnten sagen nicht das! Wie wärs…"_

"Peter, Mr. Stanley is with the Magical Constabulary Service. He is here about Konrad and I will greatly appreciate you not arguing this and if you would start co-operating," Frau Bärh ordered.

"Anyway," Stanley interjected to get the conversation back on track, "I and my superiors would be greatly delighted to know why exactly Herr Tschida was in London."

"First of all, to understand this, have you ever heard of Fyodor Rodin?" asked Frau von Weihmarr.

Stanley thought for a moment, "I've heard the name. But otherwise, I don't know anything about him."

She moved her jaw a bit before saying, "Fyodor Rodin was a member of the Russian Wizarding Duma. The Russians' version of the Zaubererstag or your Ministry of Magic. He died in 2001, in Berlin. Apparently of a… a… the English for _herzanfall_?" she explained.

"Heart attack?" answered Paternoster

"_Ja_, _danke_," she said.

"And Herr Tschida was looking into this, why?" Stanley asked.

"_We_, actually, Mr. Stanley," said Paternoster, "We were looking into Rodin's death. There have been a lot of unanswered questions since his death and a few months ago we got into contact with our source."

"When exactly?'

Paternoster looked like he was going to roll his eyes as von Weihmarr jumped in, "Don't," she warned him, "About September, early September. And anyway, anyone with a brain cell could see that Rodin's death was too convenient for those in power in Moscow."

Stanley looked a taken aback. Frau Bärh continued where von Weihmarr left off, acknowledging his look: "For context, when the Soviet Union fell, and the Central Committee of Magic was disbanded, a sort of clique came to power, called the Moscow Clique. It is lead by man named Rodion Pechenikov, the President of the Wizarding Duma since 1994, and it includes the heads of the Department of Finances, head of Internal Affairs and several powerful wizarding businessmen. Mikhail Zakharov comes to mind."

"The founder of Tsaritsyn-Bayer, right?" Stanley asked. Since the defeat of Voldemort, they had become the main competition for Malfoy Apothecary in Britain.

"Yes," said von Weihmarr, "So you have this clique controlling the government and the economy, something I assume you would understand. Rodin was on the outside of this group, in fact, he was one of the main voices of opposition to Pechenikov and the rest of them. Frequently accused them of corruption and abuse of power."

"Which seems to not just be endemic to Britain," snarked Paternoster.

"Peter! _Höflich_!" chided von Weihmarr.

"My apologies Mr. Stanley," offered Frau Bärh.

"None needed," Stanley gracefully accepted before turning to von Weihmarr, "So Rodin had a lot of enemies, I assume."

"Indeed. He was followed, spied on. There were three confirmed assassination attempts on him. Rodin was a man with a very large target on his back. And in 2001, he started saying that he had extremely damning information on Pechenikov and the Moscow Clique."

"Do you know what he was saying? What sort of information he had?"

"The rumour was that Rodin had found out that some of the people around Pechenikov had been taking foreign money," said Paternoster, "The Russian public tends to be very weary of any outside interference and they wouldn't like this. Bit of a holdover from the Soviet days. So, it would have been very bad for Pechenikov. Anyway, Rodin had gone to Berlin, got into contact with various publications, looking to expose this story when all of a sudden, he died."

"Just like that?" asked Stanley after a moment.

"Just like that."

Silence hung in Frau Bärh's office while the implications of Rodin's death sunk in. Finally, "Who is your source?"

"_Wenn wirst du nicht sagen ihn, dann werde ich_," von Weihmarr said to Paternoster in a threatening tone.

Paternoster threw up his hands saying, "_Ich bin nicht noch so,_" in an agitated tone. Von Weihmarr glared back at Paternoster.

"A few months ago, we came into contact with our source," von Weihmarr started to explain to Stanley, "came from inside the Duma. Working for the archives there, had a lot of access to information regarding Rodin's death and said he had found something."

"And the source's name? What is he called?" Stanley asked, patiently.

Von Weihmarr took a breath, "Aleksandr Fyodorovich Rodin. Fyodor Rodin's son."

They sat there in silence for another moment. The clouds outside had parted more, slowly letting the sun reflect off the canal and giving the ceiling a watery look. It all seemed strange.

"I'm guessing it was the younger Rodin who told you to look into London for the foreign money? Why?"

Frau Bärh quickly looked up, like Stanley had suddenly broke her out of her revery. "Aleksandr Rodin gave us the name of someone called Hayden. Aleksandr Rodin told us that someone within the Clique had been taking money from a well placed person within your Ministry of Magic. For years."

"Years?" repeated Stanley, "Why? Why would someone in the Ministry be giving money to a person within the Clique?"

"Since just before Voldemort's return. If earlier. And looking for remnant Death Eaters I suppose. A number of people with ties to radical wizarding groups have fled to Russia because it's easy to hide. For the right price, you could completely disappear there," Frau Bärh explained.

"Did Tschida confirm anything Rodin was saying prior to his death?"

Paternoster answered, "The last time we talked, he said he had confirmed what Rodin had been saying: people, very powerful people, had been taking money from other governments. Konrad thought, and he was looking into this, that what was being traded for the money was information. Russian secrets being traded for money. And possibly vice versa. All insider trading in a way."

"So _did_ Tschida get into contact with someone in the Ministry?" asked Stanley. He couldn't help but get the feeling that Tschida had gotten close to something.

"Do you not have his notes?" Frau Bärh asked.

"No."

"I made sure Konrad had something in place for if he ever lost his notes. And Erika and Peter have their own notes and were in constant contact with Konrad and Aleksandr Rodin" she said, looking directly at Stanley, "We are professionals here, Herr Stanley. We always have a plan for when things go bad."


	5. Too Much Can Make Me Blind

The woman, brunette of about thirty dressed mostly in black except for the beige trench, unfurled a black umbrella. She had apparated in an alley near the Knightsbridge station and started to walk east. It was a dark night, the clouds low and a misty rain was falling, like it had been for the past few weeks. She walked down until she got to the Jo Malone store near Sloane Square, where a middle aged man, dressed in a Muggle suit and grey mackintosh, seemingly not noticing the drizzle, looking at the display of perfumes.

"The weather reports says that it will rain tomorrow," said the man when she got next to him, still looking at the expensive perfumes.

"I have a coat," she replied.

"A cold rain."

"My coat has a liner."

The man looked down her and took the umbrella as they turned towards the square. He was taller than her by a half a foot and she moved in close to stay under the umbrella.

"So what have you called me down here for, sir?" the woman asked.

"We're going to meet the head prefect, Hawkins."

"Lamb? Why?"

"We'll find out when we get there."

They walked down, chatting.

"My parents are going to be in the city next weekend," said Hawkins.

"What for?" he asked.

"Oh, the old man's helping to organize a state visit, make sure everything's tickityboo and all that. And mother wants to see _Eugene Onegin_, anyway."

"Very good. You going?"

"To the opera, yes. The dinner, dear God no, sir. Dreadfully boring. And I don't need some lordship asking me about work."

He gave a chuckle as they crossed to the opposite side of the square.

After a long pause: "So what did Tommy and you get up to the other night?" Hawkins asked.

His face became stoney, "Just some drinks."

"Really? Just drinks, sir?" Hawkins said, sounding exasperated, "You'll never get out of the bloody hutch at this ra-"

"Here we are," he cut Hawkins off as they reached the house. Hawkins could only roll her eyes behind his back as he nocked on the door. An ancient looking man, the butler, Hawkins assumed, dressed in a black suit answered the door. His dull eyes looked over them for a few seconds before letting them in.

A man stepped into the entrance, "Alec Juhasz, it's good to see you."

"You, too," Alec replied.

Charles Lamb, Section XIII's no-name MP oversight and intermediary with the JIC*, was very unremarkable. Portly, dully dressed. _His mother was water and his father a wall_, Hawkins figured. The perfect man for the job.

"Who's this?" he asked, regarding Hawkins.

"Samantha Hawkins, she works for me," replied Alec.

"Sam, sir," she interjected. Lamb elected to ignore her.

"You trust her?" Lamb asked Alec.

"Of course."

Lamb flustered, stuttering a, "Fine. Whatever Alec," before guiding them into a sitting room and serving some scotch.

"First of all, I should start by apologizing. I should have listened to Zelda … I should have listened to you, Alec, when this whole Samsun business blew up."

_Jules_. That's all Sam thought. _Damn that night. Damn them all._

"You don't need to, Charles."

"I do. You lost a good officer, Zelda's dead and now I have you and Miss Hawkins here in the middle of the night asking you to do something very dangerous. I didn't believe it at first, when Zelda brought it up originally. You know what Zelda was like at the end, all paranoid, isolated … the end was pretty close, wasn't it? By then?"

"Yes. I was the one who buried her after the minister sacked her," Alec snarked.

"It was a bloody business, Alec and you know it. You were on the bleeding edge of it. Hell, you and Miss Hawkins are its victims. But you see, if I didn't believe in what Zelda was 'raving' about, I do now. Especially after I got my hands on this."

Lamb handed over a document to Alec. Sam watched him go over it, holding her breath. It was only three pages, but he took what felt like an eternity.

"So you now believe her? The stories about the leaking?"

Alec hadn't even tried to disguise the snarl in his voice as he handed the document to Sam.

"I needed evidence, Alec! I can't just run around accusing senior members of your division with treason!" Lamb balked in his defence, "And we were in perfectly honourable positions. You thought that Winters was betrayed and wanted a witch-hunt. The JIC, the minister and I thought that there had been gross incompetence on Zelda's part — which is a view the Foreign Office shares."

"Oh, I do understand _your _dilemma," Alec snarked to himself.

"And don't forget that _you_ were Zelda's man. Not Selwyn. And you were the one who fronted her towards the end. No one but you. I am sorry for you being put in the corner like you have, but we needed a clean swe —"

"And Jerome Allenby was the minister's man," Alec cut off Lamb, gently enough to get him to slow down and listen.

"It's not like you had a suspect, you know! You didn't point a finger at anyone! And a directionless inquiry can be destructive!"

"Whereas a 'clean sweep' makes things so much clearer."

"Allenby produces intelligence instead of scandals, he has stuck to his charter and has won the customers' trust. All in all, he has done extremely well."

"With Raoul Selwyn fronting him, who wouldn't?"

"Zelda, for one," said Lamb with punch.

"Is this all about that special source Jerome's still running, Gabriel?"

Source Gabriel, Operation Archangel. The _wunderkind_ of intelligence sources that could do no wrong. An insider of the Wizarding Duma, supposedly, giving excellent information on the goings on. After the Samsun disaster, Zelda's sacking and death and the rise of the young Turks to the top floor, Gabriel was essentially the only source for information for Section XIII. Every operation, every act of intelligence gathering — Hell, even if you needed to launder some money — went through the Top Floor now and run by Gabriel.

"You're not on the list?"

"Of course not. We've been sidelined, remember?" Alec leaned forward, "Headhunters are not really needed anymore. Not careful enough."

"Anyway," Lamb answered, ignoring the insult, "Since you've asked. Yes."

Alec finally had handed to Sam the report — something she would have told the author to edit before handing it off to her or Alec. But what got her was the name of who wrote it.

"Bloody hell! Dunstan Pettigrew! He's alive!"

Dunstan Pettigrew, of distant relations of some sort to the now infamous Peter, was a field operative out of Hong Kong. Like Sam, and a number of other Section XIII members, he was a product of Britain's colonial experiment — the wayward younger children of the landed gentry living on the periphery of empire. They'd picked him up a number of years ago, smuggling in the Philippines. Sam never liked him, too impulsive, too aggressive. And prone to going AWOL. Pettigrew wasn't hers, thank God, she worked the East Africa desk — dubbed "the suck" by the American "cousins" because either nothing happened or everything happened at once — Poor Ishmael was Pettigrew's handler and had been worried sick for six months, actually hoping he was dead, it would make things easier to explain to the top floor.

"If it's any consultation, Hawkins, he's brought us treasure," Alec spoke quietly, trying to get her back on track.

Sam read the report. Pettigrew, writing on cheap hotel stationary, was talking about a series of encounters he had "Zoya". She assumed it was a fake name, protecting the guilty and soon to be dead. Sam already knew, from Ishmael, that Pettigrew had been sent to Singapore to sniff out some Calderon Corp working stiff from the Russia division on a business trip. See if he would turn over. Pettigrew found him a dud, did nothing but drink and whore. The man's wife, Zoya, was different.

Zoya was a Volkov bride, trained from her teens to spy on the West, marry men who would give them access, all pre-arranged. She was a member of the _General'nyy __Razvedyvatel'noye Sluzbeni_, GRS, Russia's wizarding apparat run by that ghost, Maksim Volkov. They had a single picture of the bloody bastard and it was forty-years-old and blurry. Taken from an East German military parade. And they were still not entirely sure if it was him in the photo.

The report said that over the course of several meetings (and a few nights together, knowing Pettigrew), Zoya divulged that she wanted to come over to Section XIII. And that she had information about a mole for Allenby's ears.

And that's when she disappeared. Packed off, said to have had a psychotic break. Taken to some 'hospital' for treatment. Siberia, most likely. God could only help her now. If she wasn't dead

Zoya had left a written document, her entire account, being translated by Pettigrew (_When did the bastard learn Russian?_). Left in a drop box in a park. Her entire account of how she found out about the mole in Section XIII's top brass. Or at least figured most of it out. Sometime around '06, during the doldrums following Voldemort's final defeat, following that disaster in Guatemala where twelve officers and agents were killed in one go (they were under Alec's command), one of Volkov's agents went to London. On the surface, secretly passing off what looked like good intelligence to them, in exchange for low grade drivel from the Section. But if Samsun was any form of measurement, and Zoya was not the nutter the Russians wanted them, Pettigrew, to believe, the truth was the other way around.

"Is Pettigrew safe?" asked Alec after taking a sip of his scotch.

"Yes, a safe house on Christmas Island. The Australians have baby-sitters on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Good," Alec said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and placing his drink on the floor between his feet, "So I'm assuming that you want us to look into it, then?"

"Sounds dangerous, sir," Sam quipped.

"Indeed, Hawkins."

"Well, I just thought that you and Miss Hawkins would be in the best position to hunt for a mole," Lamb blustered

"I'm guessing it's because we've been shunted off to the sidelines since Zelda's downfall?" Alec asked, "Or is it because you think that there's some little vendetta on my part that feels I haven't been given my due? 'Cry havoc' out of petty revenge, right?"

"I didn't mean it like that, Alec! What I meant is that you can look into this quietly and subtly, with no one noticing," Lamb protested, "You know well enough that all the avenues of inquiry are in the Section's hands! We can't use any of the usual resources, Hepburn has all the surveillance under her control, and we can't use them without suspecting her, as well."

"Then why not go to Counter Intelligence? They're the experts, they'll do you a job," pointed out Alec.

"The JIC won't have it. And besides, they're busy as it is looking for terrorists under every bed. And I wouldn't give your agents much of a chance if the CI people come barging in like they usually do."

"So there's no one else who will do this? You know that I was the one who recruited Winters. And you should know that Hawkins is her school friend."

"And are you still friends with Selwyn?"

"Not in a long time."

"But will it cause any problems? There won't be any emotional, or other reasons, which you feel might hinder you?"

"None."

"So I'll tell the JIC that you'll do it then, can I?" Lamb said, not really asking, just checking off the boxes on a form. "You'll take the job, clean the stables? Go backwards, forwards, do whatever's necessary? It's your generation after all, your legacy."

Alec said "Yes" and drowned the last of his scotch.

_Why do we keep calling her Winters? That's her work name._

* * *

Author's Notes

Sorry it's been a while since I've last updated. School happened. But there will be more to come. Also:

*JIC — Joint Intelligence Committee. They're part of the British Cabinet Office responsible for directing the national intelligence organizations of the UK on behalf of the Cabinet of the UK and provide advice for the Cabinet related to security, defence and foreign affairs. The JIC oversees the activities of the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, or more famously MI6), the Security Service (aka MI5), GCHQ (Government Communications Head Quarters (they're the UK's equivalent to the NSA)) as well as Defence Intelligence.

Also, Alec's last name is pronounced Yuhas

This should give you a hint about who Section XIII's real masters are


	6. Portrait d'une femme

The MCS, the Magical Constabulary Service, had been created in the wake of reforms to the Ministry of Magic. It was an amalgamation of seven sub departments of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, charged with dealing with different parts of essentially the same process. The idea behind it being that because Fudge's administration and the war, small bureaucratic fiefdoms had formed and caused the due process of law to be slowed to the speed of molasses in a cold prairie January, and in early 2006, the MCS was formed to streamline it all. While fighting dark forces was a priority, the emphasis was now put on law enforcement. Training was standardized, and ranking and organization was reformed on Scotland Yard's model. And now it needed to prove itself. Tschida's murder could be considered the first major case where all parts of the MCS would have to work together.

And keep things quiet until they could release an official press statement and let the trial of the murderer speak for itself.

At least that's what Harry hoped. He was fine with the front line, investigative part of his job. Loved it in fact. Loved the chase. The administrative side of being in charge of the MCS, the paper work and its own nascent bureaucracy annoyed him. Several times over the past year, Harry had wished he'd given the promotion to someone else. And now, in one of the meeting rooms in their second floor offices, Harry and the investigative team, along with Kit Stanley, poured over _Der Krähennest_'s notes.

Tschida had left behind a surprising number pages of notes. Quite a bit like the notes Hermione usually took for anything. The team, headed by Ruqayyah and consisting of her partner Eamon, Connie Carter, Natalie MacDonald, Susan Bones and Arjuna Balaji, were on their third pot of coffee and still working out the time line of events when Harry and Hermione came in.

"How's it going?" asked Harry.

"Slow. But we're getting there. Just a lot of stuff to sift through," Ruqayyah said, tucking a lock back under her hijab that had fallen out, "And I'm guessing you want a briefing, Hermione?"

"Robards and Her Ladyship would liked to be kept abreast of this case, so yes, if you don't mind."

"Well what we have so far, and this is just a summery of what Tschida has left behind: So, Fyodor Rodin noticed that Mikhail Zakharov, president of Tsaritsyn-Bayer and a close buddy with Minister Pechenikov, was making trips to London, starting in 1999. Zakharov's also chairs a committee that's in charge of the Wizarding Duma's research and development department, for whatever that's worth. So Rodin noticed all these trips, about fifteen two week trips in 1999 and starts poking around and finds this."

Kit handed Harry and Hermione one of the translated documents, it was a memo from Gringotts regarding a joint account to be set up at their branch in Singapore. To Harry, there was only a lot of financial mumbo-jumbo and the only thing that drew Harry's attention was the name of the other signatory, Kim Hayden. Hermione noticed the name, too.

"Any idea who this Hayden is?" she asked.

"Not yet. Tschida and his colleagues thought that Hayden worked — or still works — for the Ministry," said Ruqayyah.

"I'll get you access to the personnel archives, Ruqayyah. See what you can find. Anyway, what does an overseas bank account mean, Kit?"

"The fact that it's in Hong Kong is suspicious," said Kit, whom despite his 'precious' appearance, he had worked as a tax collector for the Ministry before becoming part of the MCS. "It's a tax haven for both Muggles and Wix. Tax laws are fairly relaxed when compared to England and are … enforced at the Executive Wizarding Council's leisure."

"So a great way to hide money?" asked Harry.

"As long as your in the Council's good graces. And probably by extension the People's Politburo of Wizards on the mainland."

"In other words," said Harry.

"We won't be able to get a warrant to look into the account. But it's not impossible to find a body or two who'll lend a hand," replied Kit, then with a shrug, "I just need the right one."

"Anything else," asked Hermione to the group.

"We need the original autopsy report for Fyodor Rodin," said Ruqayyah.

Eamon said, "We know about his chain smoking, and his son said that there's a heart condition in the family. But, this is now a rather suspicious coincidence that Mr. Rodin should die of a heart attack on the eve of some sort of revelation about the Duma."

"Right, and one that required him to be out of country for it," said Harry, then to Hermione, "We'll need to talk to the DIMC about getting that autopsy report. And get Eddy to go over it to see if there was anything missed by the pathologists the first time."

"And as for Zakharov," said Hermione, "Do we know his whereabouts? He is a person of interest, after all."

"For all we know, he's in Timbuktu right now. But we'll keep an eye out for him, Hermione," answered Ruqayyah, "God willing."

Hermione nodded, "All right then. Harry?"

"Yeah, I guess. Everyone know what there doing?" the team gave a general yes, "Good, I think we'll get to it, then."

* * *

There are times when one encounters a person whom they swear they have seen before. That moment when one thinks _I've seen you before, but where? Who are you?_ It was that sort of moment Ginny had when she went to collect the security deposit for the cottage from Lana Winters.

The day was overcast, but the clouds high in the sky, casting the valley in harsh winter light. On the top of the hill, just off the road that lead out of Gwynafon was the cottage. It was low, two stories and made from grey stones and thatch. The doors and window panes a dusty greyish blue.

From the outside, the cottage seemed so still. So quiet. Ginny wondered if there was anyone there at all. Then she saw smoke rising from the chimney and continued up the trail. She knocked on the door and waited. She heard a muffled "Coming," before the door opened, enough for Lana to look out.

"Hey. Um … I'm Ginny … Ginny Potter. I'm here for the…"

"The security deposit. Yeah," said Lana, opening the door, "Come in."

The first thing that struck Ginny about Lana was how tired she looked. Like she hadn't slept in weeks. Dark shadows under her hazel eyes and ashen skin. She was tall, too. Very tall. Closer to Ron or Bill or Percy's height. Her hair was a light sandy brown and in a longish pixie cut, jaw square and honestly she looked like a strong person. Physically strong. But someone who was naturally strong recovering from a long illness. She was much too thin for her frame.

Lana had walked out of her sight, into the kitchen, rubbing her left arm. Ginny was not someone inclined to snoop, she knew better, having grown up at The Burrow, but she felt compelled to look around, just in the living room, she told herself. The decorations were spartan, but what was there was rather eclectic. There was a nazar charm, a blue glass ornament that looked like an eye. It was like the one she had seen in the Hamdan's home. It was supposed to ward off the evil eye.

Ginny continued on, finding an antique Turkish copper bowl, one of those long Greek drinking cups with a pair of painted eyes and Persian miniatures. A framed poster of a woman dressed in black, her mouth covered, with an elaborate, spiked crown on a red and orange background. She held a dagger in her hands, dripping in blood and the bodies of two children at her feet; the title above the woman's head was "_Medée_". Near that were a few pictures, one with Lana standing in front of a ruined gate with carved stone lions. She looked happy and healthy; the wind in her hair and a smile on her lips. There was another picture next to that one, Lana on a stone wall or fortification. A young woman next to her in a sun dress and a fancy scarf on her head, her hair looked dark brown, but her eyes were covered large sunglasses. On the floor, shelves, the desk and coffee table, there were notebooks and sketchbooks, a box full of pencils, mugs — some half empty with coffee — and ash trays, some empty, some with the ash still in them. A few with a few smouldering cigarettes. These giving the room a very strong smell, and Ginny knew her mother would have had a fit.

And there were books, Ginny noticed; both Muggle and Wizarding. Books on spells, potions, local wizarding history. Muggle books on survival, philosophy, history, what looked like manuals, atlases, a collection with the title _Jane's Fighting Ships_. Lots of books, magazines and newspapers in several languages and different alphabets, some Ginny had never scene. And there were art books, on the coffee table, in book shelves, on the floor. Again, there were Wizarding artists and clearly Muggle ones without moving pictures. The Muggle ones intrigued Ginny the most. Some where closed, some open, but they were so strange. Geometric shapes in primary colours, compositions that looked like people — at least Ginny thought they looked like people — dark, messy, grotesque paintings of people and some that looked like nothing but solid colour. So strange, Muggles with their art. It barely looked like art.

Ginny's eyes were drawn to a corner of the living room, the window next to it looked over the valley, the fog settling at the bottom of it, completely shrouding Gwynafon. In the corner itself was an easel and canvas. Part of it was painted in a grey, a blueish grey. It hadn't taken any shape Ginny could see, and there was a lot of canvas still showing.

That was when Lana returned. She was holding a small pouch, which Ginny figured had the security deposit.

"Sorry it took that long," Lana said, handing Ginny the purse, "Thirty galleons, as requested."

_Weren't your eyes hazel a minute ago?_ The way the light hit her eyes from the window, they looked a pale grey. Almost colourless. And in that moment, the thought _I've seen you before_ crossed Ginny's mind. But for the life of her, she couldn't place Lana Winters. Maybe at Hogwarts. A quidditch game or at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley.

"Uh, thanks." Not knowing what to do, Ginny glanced at the unfinished painting, "I was just admiring your work. Um, is it … is it of outside? A landscape?"

Lana had a glazed look in her eyes, "No, not really. Maybe. I don't know," she shrugged, looking anywhere but Ginny. "Sort of just came to me."

"Oh," murmured Ginny, then: "I notice that you like Muggle art. Quite different, I wouldn't know how to make of it."

"It's modern stuff. A lot of them were either pushing what art means, or dealing with problems; personal and external," she said, she let herself grab her left arm, messaging it. Her mind was elsewhere.

Ginny didn't know if she should ask about it. The arm. She wanted to know, there was a story about Lana Winters that Ginny needed to know. And then: "You know, Harry and I would love it if you would come down to the main house every once in a while. For supper, drinks, just to talk. I'm home a lot, so just drop by whenever you want."

Lana looked at Ginny. Her eyes still far off. Somewhere else, but she shrugs again, "I'll think about it."


End file.
